And now you open your eyes. And now you’re awake. And then the conscious part of your day starts, too. There is a dancing light filled with flaky dust particles that penetrates deep into your window. Its warmth is undeniable. The day seems to be reaching out to you. The immediate future sounds auspicious, or at least that’s what the weather lady leads you to believe. A short moment later, you ignore her predictions because, as you’ve seen it on previous occasions, she just gets paid to play with your optimism. You shower, you get dressed and finally get ready to go out there to grind for half a day.
You spend the following 8 -10 hours invested in a very particular state of mind where everything you are asked to do seems to be conspiring against your master plan of dozing off. You pray for the hours to die soon, as you despise the clock face with a passion that is usually credited to prominent religious figures. The present dies again, and again, and again, as the plain hands of that infamous, time-telling device just keep on turning. The torture is over. It is time to go. You are now filled with a new sort of energy, a kind of nourishing substance that feeds your interior with exquisite anticipation.
You now get to the car. The energy evaporates like ethyl alcohol. You’re passing out. You manage to get home safely. You get off the car and, as you open the door so that you come into the house, you feel a softly mannered sense of accomplishment padding your shoulders, as if the wind itself were trying to congratulate for surviving yet another day. That feeling, too, soon dissipates. You are home. You nap. You wake up. You have dinner. You watch T.V. You go to your bedroom. You go to the bathroom and you brush your teeth. You hit the bed. You pass out. The end.
 |
| The Persistence of Memory - Salvador Dali |
Repeat again.
Stop.
Fuck this.
You wake up.
Stop.
Were you dreaming?
You open your eyes. You feel but cannot see; there is no color, no light. Your eyes go on full tilt as they continue to see nothing, your pupils dilate with no success; the darkness around you is inescapable. You go back to feeling, and what you feel is overwhelmingly making its presence more and more palpable. You feel the fear in the back of your neck. Your senses become as susceptible as an open wound. No images, only tact and textures adorning your imagination. Suddenly, you forget about reality, you forget about which world you are in and, most importantly, you feel as if there is no conflict between these antithetical worlds. A dichotomy is created, a line as thick as gossamer now separates your previous visions of the world. No such thing as being conscious or unconscious - you are the moment.
You feel. And you feel until your entire body is nothing but a feeling. There is peace in this newfound realm. There are no bars, no walls, and no limits, only feelings. But now you see something swelling in the distance, a glowing spot that can’t really be looked upon directly. You are now thinking, thinking about what you feel, and you feel that there is something terribly wrong with whatever awaits you outside of this dimension.
The problem soon becomes evident, and that problem is that there are no limits, only self-defeating illusions that chain you to a post as you stare into the horizon of possibility. You get used to the post, and to the chain that contains you and, in an effort to deflect pain, you simply accept this repressing condition as nothing more than a rule to which you have to comply. You conform to rules and to limitations that tell you to stop feeling.
And then you grow more and more frustrated; you feel that the moments are to be spent in rituals of grateful compliance, for you think that what you feel is completely illogical and therefore you repress it by squeezing hard until there is no more resistance.
You are scared of change; you are frightened by the idea of complying with non-compliance. But what scares you the most is that if you actually do fight these besetting conditions then everything you know will be torn to pieces; you need of this comfort, you need familiarity and repetition. You need all of these things because they have you floating, and you see it too. This is the framework of your life; this is the prison of your life.
The room is dark. No light paints the walls, no colors to look at, nor any signs of physical confinement due to the simple fact that you cannot see anything but the harsh black screen that stands perpetually in front of you. You go back to feeling. And you now start sweating. You feel the dampness of the bed sheets, and you feel the slight stir of the air around you. Soon enough, there is little to feel. Suddenly, a muffled horn cries from far away, echoing from unfathomed distances. The sound eventually becomes more apparent. Its presence grows more and more persistent. There is something really frightening about it, a somewhat shrilling quality that makes its persistent presence more and more real. You try to make sense out of this pathetic noise and, in a fraction of a second, you finally understand - you make some sense out of it all.
Now you’re entire body is flushed right back into reality. You are shoved through a tube and pinched back into the world you claim to live in.
And now you open your eyes. And now you’re awake. And then the conscious part of your day starts, too. There is a dancing light filled with flaky dust particles that penetrates deep into your window. Its warmth is real. The day seems to be reaching out to you. The immediate future sounds auspicious, or at least that’s what the weather lady leads you to believe. A short moment later, you ignore her predictions because, as you’ve seen it on previous occasions, she just gets paid to play with your optimism. You shower, you quickly get dressed and finally get ready to go out there and think for the rest of your day.
It’s ok, it doesn’t matter what it was. But then again, what was it about change??
